


His Heart

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: And a happy ending, Angst, F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, angst angst angst, because how could I not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: Re-posting and continuation of Chapter 22 of Facets. Written pre-fall finale in which Tom tells Liz the truth about Red and his feelings before Tom is killed and Liz and Red have a confrontation. Angsty Lizzington.





	1. Chapter 1

They stand there, facing each other, just on opposite sides of the room, but somehow it feels as though the whole world is in between them. 

Lizzie is standing there, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, staring at him with an inscrutable expression on her face. He can’t tell what she’s thinking by looking at her so he just stares back, terrified. He feels as though his whole heart is there on the floor in front of her, the poor shriveled, battered thing. 

It might as well be.

He had opened his hotel door just minutes ago, about to leave for her apartment, to see if there was anything he could do for her in the wake of Tom’s death, and instead he had found her there, sitting on the floor in the hallway outside his door, back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly at nothing.

“Lizzie!” he’d gasped, quickly crouching down next to her and reaching out to touch her arm, something that had become quite commonplace between them recently.

But she’d jerked away from his touch like it burned her. 

His heart had stuttered in his chest.

Tom told her.

Earlier today, when Red had confronted Tom for the last time, Tom had arrogantly told him that he had figured out the contents of the suitcase and, given that Lizzie’s real father was stuffed in there, then the Red he was talking to must be hiding something decidedly non-paternal. Red was furious and threatened and bribed and begged Tom to keep the information to himself, for Lizzie’s sake, if nothing else. But Tom had simply smirked and slipped away like the vile snake that he is. And the next time Red saw Tom, he was dead from his injuries, afflicted by the very people Red was trying to protect Lizzie from. But Lizzie had seen him before he died. 

And judging by the look on her face, Tom told Lizzie. 

Tom told Lizzie everything. 

Oh, God. 

Lizzie knows. Lizzie knows how he feels. His deepest, darkest secret in now out in the open, known by the very object of his feelings.

So, it makes sense that it feels like his heart is now existing outside of his body.

It has always been Lizzie’s anyway.

She stares at him now, inside his hotel room, her face pale and drawn and her eyes big and blue. 

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?” he croaks. He’s so scared.

“About my father? That you took his identity and his bones are in a suitcase?”

“Yes.”

She makes an awful wheezing sound, a shaking hand coming up to cover her face, and he takes a step towards her in concern. But she takes two steps back.

She’s afraid of him. 

God, this is excruciating.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe…” she trails off helplessly and he hurries to answer her, strangely relieved now that he can.

“I couldn’t, you couldn’t know your father’s true identity, it was too dangerous for you. I was trying to protect you, Lizzie.”

“So, you took his name.” she looks vaguely horrified at the thought. 

He can certainly relate.

“It was best if your enemies thought your father was still alive somewhere. Then you would be of no interest to them.”

“But why?” she gasps. “You had a family of your own, why would you give your whole life up for me, a child?”

“I didn’t have a family, not then.” Red murmurs, desperate to explain, feeling twenty pounds lighter already. “They were already gone, murdered, as I thought, by the Cabal. I had nothing left in life, no wife, no child, no nothing. And there you were, both parents dead, or as good as, an orphan, alone, with nothing and no one. I…related to you. We were both alone. In a way, all we had was each other. And, after all, your parents were gone ultimately because of me. I felt responsible. So, I decided to take you to Sam and I would fight the Cabal, those people that changed both our lives forever, and try to keep you happy and healthy and safe for as long as I was alive. It…didn’t turn out the way I expected.”

“No,” she breathes and that look is back in her eyes, that awful fear and wariness and panic. “Tom said…He said that you have…feelings.”

He almost laughs out loud, that simple word sounding nothing like the viscous emotions that course through his veins whenever she is near. 

“Yes,” he whispers, unable to elaborate, his stomach in knots, his heart pounding, the stupid useless thing. 

“And how long have you…had those?”

How long? Does he even know when it really started? Perhaps when he attended her college graduation ceremony, high up in the bleachers, a fedora pulled low over his eyes, and was completely stunned by her, her beauty, her intelligence, her demeanor. Perhaps it had been the surveillance photos Tom had obtained in the early days, showing her going about her life, happy and ordinary. Perhaps it was the wedding photos that sent him stumbling into the desert, high off his ass, searching for something, anything that wasn’t as sick and twisted as he felt. And perhaps it had been when she had walked down the stairs in an FBI blacksite, glowing like an angel, that he had truly fallen for her. 

He works his mouth.

“A while.”

Liz blanches. “But how long?” she presses. “Like…since I was young?”

“No!” he spits, disgusted, and making her jump. He bites his cheek, fighting to stay calm and not start yelling or burst into tears or kiss her. He’s not sure which one is more likely.

“No, nothing like that,” he says, quieter. “It was a process…But around when we started working together. Maybe a little before,” he mumbles.

Why is it so hard to define love? Wouldn’t it be so much easier if he could give her a date and time? _Why, yes, Lizzie, I fell in love with you at exactly 3:57pm on December 3, 2001, when you were 27 years old. See, not creepy at all._

God. He’s losing his mind. 

Meanwhile, she’s still looking small and afraid on the other side of the room. He can’t stand this.

“Lizzie…” he tries to take another step forward but she takes three more back immediately and would have taken more if her back hadn’t hit the wall with a dull thud. 

She’s killing him. He always knew she would. 

“Lizzie, please…” he murmurs, desperately. “I never meant to, that is, you were never supposed to know. It’s my burden, not yours. I would never presume, or ask, or suggest that, oh, Lizzie, please…” 

And her eyes are welling with tears and they’re spilling over onto her cheeks and, oh god, he’s just making it worse, he can’t do this, his heart is aching, out there on the floor, and his throat is tightening and, Jesus, is he going to cry too?

“Lizzie…I should have told you a long time ago but I just couldn’t bear for you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now, it’s too much and I can’t…” 

And now tears are slipping down his cheeks and for some reason that seems to undo her and she’s openly sobbing now, hands pressed over her face and she’ll never come back after this, he’ll never see her again, he’ll die alone and pathetic as he’s always suspected and if this is his last chance, then he has to tell her now. He is suddenly certain of it. If he feels lighter now, then he’ll feel completely unburdened if he tells her and that would be nice, wouldn’t it? Yes, he must. 

“Lizzie…I might never get another chance to say this.”

And she’s ripping her hands away from her face and shaking her head frantically, gasping for air in between sobs, pressing herself back against the wall as if that’s the only thing keeping her up. He thinks he hears the word “don’t” a few times, her eyes pleading with him, but he has to tell her, he has to, he can’t do without, she has to know, he – 

“Lizzie, I love you.”

She goes curiously silent at his words, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her hands to her mouth once again.

He wonders blankly what she’s trying to hold in.

And then she’s moving, running for the door, desperate to get out, get away from him, and he can’t blame her, doesn’t move to stop her, doesn’t speak. 

He doesn’t do anything but drop to his knees on the hardwood floor right as the door slams shut behind her for the last time, tears streaming down his face, pain radiating through his entire body.

He was wrong. He doesn’t feel better, lighter, not at all. In fact, he’s never felt worse in his whole life, never felt so completely empty and cold. But he supposes it makes sense.

She took his heart with her.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes days, many of them, in fact, before he can even think about going out into the world again. Because, honestly, what’s the point?

Lizzie knows. And Lizzie ran. 

He hasn’t heard from her. He doesn’t really expect to, of course, but he can’t seem to successfully murder that small, traitorous part of him that dares to hope.

(It’s odd. He’s usually so good at killing.)

At first, he just sits and cries. He has never been a particularly weepy man but every time he remembers Lizzie’s horrorstruck face, her desperate, jerky movements as she ran from the room, leaving him, something inside him snaps in half and starts to keen. He’s not sure what it is – probably that stupid hopeful thing – but he knows he can rule out his heart. 

(He’s lost that forever.)

He spends a few days wallowing in misery and tears and the same rumpled suit, avoiding sunlight and people and anything that might remind him of Lizzie. He even steers clear of Dembe, who only got two civil words out of him when he came to investigate the deafening silence Lizzie left behind in their hotel suite. 

“She’s gone.” 

His hoarse, cracked words had rung with a finality that left Dembe with no question of what had occurred. Red retreated to his room then and has since ignored Dembe’s knocks and questions and urges to “at least eat something, please, Raymond.”

It’s only after his eyes are almost swollen shut and his face is gritty with dried tears and he is sure he cannot possibly cry anymore without simply _drying up_ that he recalls the existence of alcohol. 

(Thank god.)  
It gets even worse after that, as he dedicates himself to drinking the entire contents of the wet bar in as little time as possible, which turns out to be a true challenge. But he takes to it with a kind of morbid joy, happy to have found something to dull the ache in his chest that Lizzie has left behind. Of course, it won’t go away completely, no matter how much he rubs stupidly at his chest, which is probably why he just keeps drinking. It has to go away sometime, doesn’t it?

(He hopes so, he can’t stand it much longer.)

He gets through eight and a half bottles of hard liquor before Dembe finds him sprawled on the floor of his room, amazingly not dead from alcohol poisoning but nearly there.

Dembe doesn’t panic – this has happened too many times before for him to make that mistake – but if Red wasn’t completely and utterly out of his mind with booze and grief, he would see the hurried movements and tense line of Dembe’s shoulders and jaw.

He is worried. 

(It has never been this bad before. Not even when Red received the news that Lizzie was to be married to Tom. But then, that didn’t involve the love of Red’s life running from the room with tears streaming down her face after he confessed his love for her. So yes, this is worse.)

Dembe manages to get him cleaned up and mostly sober, pushing him into bed with more force than is usually necessary. But, then again, Red doesn’t usually threaten Dembe with bodily harm because he refuses to bring him a bottle of whiskey. 

Red, at the insistence of Dembe and mostly because of a lack of alcohol to drink, falls into an exhausted and fitful sleep. He hasn’t actually slept in days, just stared blankly at nothing while Lizzie’s cries echoed endlessly around his skull. He should sleep like a baby after all the emotional turmoil and physical abuse he’s put himself through over the last few days but he only manages to toss and turn for a few hours total, during which Dembe keeps an eye on him through the door of the bathroom as he empties the hotel medicine cabinet of anything complimentary that could be harmful. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first time Red has self-medicated. 

(That was the wedding too.)

Once Red wakes, Dembe tries to persuade him to eat something substantial, tempting him by ordering room service for breakfast, but Red opts only for black coffee, the thought of anything else turning his stomach, the mug in his hand managing to quiet Dembe and hopefully weaken his pounding headache.

It is a few more blessedly alcohol-free days of moping in which Red continues to stare, dead-eyed, at anything in the suite that is stationary while Dembe watches him warily, concerned. 

A total of two weeks has passed since his heart left when, one day, with no warning, Red suddenly showers, puts on a suit, and asks Dembe to pull the car around. Dembe simply blinks at him in shock before quickly standing and doing as he asks. He’s clean and dressed and up and moving, which has to be good right?

Once in the car, Red asks Dembe to take him to Lizzie’s apartment. 

Wrong.

Lizzie hasn’t contacted him and he surely has no right to reach out to her himself – the look on her face sent a clear enough message – but if he has to go one more second without clapping his eyes on her beautiful form, just _seeing her_ , he thinks he may just give up on life altogether.

(He passed the point of “unhealthy” long ago.)

So, he asks Dembe to park outside her apartment building away from any street lamps, the dull light of dusk providing a certain amount of cover for them, as he stares fixedly at her windows. He waits for almost an hour before he finally sees her cross her living room, passing briefly in front of the window, and just that split-second glimpse of her after this long is enough to send his heart racing in his chest. 

But the familiar burst of happiness and excitement at the sight of her, almost forgotten completely in the painful, two-week interim, only lasts for a single, shining moment before it all comes crashing back down on him. He recalls with awful accuracy the sight of her pressed against the wall, blue eyes red-rimmed and pleading with him, and then tears are gathering in his eyes again. 

(What a lecherous old man he is, leering at her, peering through her windows in the dark of night. He has never been more disgusted with himself.)

“Drive,” he says harshly to Dembe, who was dozing lightly in the front seat. He jerks awake in a panic, Red’s tone startling him.

“Wha –”

“Drive!”

Dembe quickly turns the car on and throws it into gear, pulling out of their spot and tearing down the street, not entirely awake yet, acting completely by instinct, leaving only disturbed dust and bitter regret behind. 

Red feels bad about yelling at Dembe but he had to leave. The guilt and grief was filling his lungs, choking him, and he thought maybe he could breathe again if he just left, got away from it all, away from her.

(He knows in his heart that that’s not the solution. How can it be when the only place he wants to be is with her? But he can’t have that and he’s desperate. Running will have to do.)

Red despises himself all the way back to their hotel, wallowing and craving the bite and sting of alcohol, drugs, _something_ to take the edge off. But he can’t do that again, not with Dembe watching him like a hawk. He is grateful for his friend, of course, but sometimes he just doesn’t understand his dedication to keeping Red alive. 

(He’s so far beyond hope.)

They ride the elevator up to the penthouse suite in heavy silence, Red staring at the floor and Dembe staring at Red. The second they’re through the door, Red is heading to his room, unable to bear another human’s company for a second longer, even if it’s Dembe. 

(He only wants Lizzie.)

It’s that half-hearted, dejected thought that has him wheeling around to face Dembe when he’s almost to his room. 

“Stop all surveillance. Pull back all protective forces. No more reports. I don’t want to know anything.”

He whirls back around without waiting for an answer from Dembe, who is gaping at him, completely stunned. After all, Red has had tabs on Lizzie since she graduated college. It’s been so long. But Dembe pulls himself together quickly enough to call after him. 

“But Raymond, why –”

“ _Just do it, Dembe_.”

His mouth snaps shut.

Red gives a tired sigh. He thinks he can feel exhaustion in his bones.

“She doesn’t want me around anymore and, after everything, the least I can do is respect her privacy. Besides, the only thing she needs protection from is me.” 

Red turns away and continues on to his room. 

“And how much longer will I be here anyway…”

The last sentence spills out of him on the tail end of his self-deprecating rant, cumulatively the most he has spoken in days. He doesn’t really mean to say it out loud but by the time he hears it coming out of his own mouth, he’s already about six words in so he just trails off and lets the sentence shrivel up and die in the air around him. That’s probably not the kind of talk Dembe would like to hear from him but he finds himself struggling to care.

What does it matter, anyway? 

She’s gone.

(And his heart is never coming back.)

* * *

It’s another two, bland, depressed, agonizing weeks before something changes.

He’s slumped across the couch in the suite’s living room, carelessly taking up two cushions, locked in a staring contest with the wet bar, thinking that maybe if he just glares at it long enough, a bottle of something bitter and strong will appear to save him, when the door to Dembe’s room is thrown open and he comes bursting out. 

Red can’t help but blink in surprise. It’s the most noise he’s made in weeks, tiptoeing around the suite as he has been, careful of Red’s volatile mood. 

“Raymond,” he wastes no time in addressing him and Red can see immediately that something is very wrong. He is clutching a cell phone tightly in his one hand, his eyes wide and panicked.

This can’t be good.

“What?” he mutters, his voice hoarse from sheer disuse. “What’s wrong?” he pushes himself up into a sitting position onto the couch, an action which takes far too much effort to be considered healthy. 

(He’s let himself get very weak. Thin and gaunt. Lifeless.)

Dembe stares at him for a moment, seemingly struggling with himself. Finally, Red sees his jaw clench in a familiar sign of determination. His eyes turn hard and flinty. 

“It’s Elizabeth.”

Red’s world tilts on its axis. 

A confusing sequence of emotions then hits him in quick succession. First, a thrill at the sound of her name, not uttered in their hotel suite for almost a month. Then, disgust with himself for still loving her, despite her clear signs that his affections will never be welcome. And then, finally, anger. At Dembe.

“ _I told you to_ –”

“I know,” Dembe interrupts impatiently. “I did not listen. But you must now. Elizabeth has been in a car accident.”

The anger drains out of Red in an instant, quickly replaced with fear. Cold, freezing fear. 

No.

“How bad is it?”

Dembe simply stares. 

Red feels himself go pale. 

Oh, no. Oh, please, god, no. Not now, not after everything. Not after they – 

Red is up off the couch in seconds, adrenaline taking the place of the nourishment and rest he has been denying himself out of sheer spite, and Dembe is throwing his coat at him and beating him to the door in a strange show of urgency.

(Something prickles at the back of Red’s mind. He pushes it away impatiently.)

It’s all very scary and harried after that. Dembe drives them to the hospital with growling engines and ignored red lights and they pull up with squealing brakes and muttered curses. The car is barely in park before they are leaping out with slamming doors and flapping coats, running pell-mell through the automatic doors, barely waiting to clear them before they barrel in. 

After that, it’s all yelling at hospital staff and hurrying up the stairs and down the halls to find Lizzie’s room.

(It’s not the first time he’s rushed to see her in a hospital, afraid for her life, but somehow this time is the worst. Something about the memory of how they last parted. They can’t leave it there. They just can’t.)

By the time they get to her room, they are forcing their way in while her doctor is trying to come out. Red doesn’t stop to talk to him, knowing Dembe will obtain the details of Lizzie’s condition from him, and he simply tries to push past him. 

To the doctor’s credit, he does make one attempt to stop him, placing a bony, delicate, surgeon’s hand on his arm, but Red simply turns and stares. Something about the dark, dead look in his eyes must make his message clear and the doctor quickly removes his hand and steps aside. 

Red hears Dembe pull him aside and start questioning him as Red lets her hospital room door fall shut behind him. 

And, all of a sudden, there she is. A little beaten and bruised and bandaged but still beautiful. 

(His eyes seem to ache at the sight of her. Almost as much as his empty chest. He wonders where she’s keeping his heart.)

She has some stiches on a cut on her cheek, a bruised forehead, her left arm in a sling, and her left leg looks a little bulkier under the scratchy hospital blankets than her right. No cast but probably some bandages. And the fact that she wasn’t immediately rushed into surgery bodes well. She seems to have been patched up before he even got here but he’ll check with Dembe once he’s done with the doctor. 

For now, he just wants to look at her. The sight of her, still and asleep and pale, is a strange but welcome one, so unlike the torrent of violent energy she had been when he last saw her.

(He’s wants to press his lips to her beautiful face.)

But he’s glad she’s asleep. Standing here now, suddenly in her presence again, he realizes that he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to her if she was awake when he burst in. 

And what if she wakes up? 

He feels the beginnings of panic starting to unfurl within him at the thought but quickly calms himself. She’s asleep for now so he can sit quietly by her side and be thankful that she’s alive. When she wakes up…well, he’ll deal with that later. 

He moves forward slowly now, as if in a dream, feeling a little blinded by the brightness of her pale skin against the dimmed hospital lights. She looks positively ethereal.

(God, he’s lost his mind. Somewhere between the tears and the alcohol poisoning, it must have finally abandoned him. Honestly, he’s surprised it stayed this long.)

He pulls the single padded armchair forward from by the window towards her bedside as quietly as he can, truly terrified of waking her, and settles in it, not taking his eyes off her. 

He reaches out instinctively toward her hand lying there on top of the covers, aching to touch her, as he has always done without hesitation at her bedside but, when his fingers are within an inch of hers, he stops abruptly. 

The vivid memory of Lizzie backing away from him, scared, flashes before his eyes. He squeezes them shut. 

No, he will not touch Lizzie. She does not want that. He is sure of it.

So, he sits, hands clasped tightly together in his lap, his eyes glued to Lizzie’s face. He’ll sit here and wait for Dembe to find him or Lizzie to stir, whichever comes first. If the former, he’ll be pleased and, if the latter…he doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

For now, he’s content to just sit here and gaze lovingly at her, while her eyes are closed and can’t stare back at him in disgust and horror. Just for a while. That must be okay, after all, she doesn’t know, does she?

(And, here with her again, that ache in his empty chest feels so much better. His heart is near again.)

Yes, he’ll stay. For a while.


	3. Chapter 3

Red smacks the side of the vending machine, aggravated. The small orange package wobbles a little but remains firmly wedged between the metal spring and the glass front, despite the five dollars in change Red has spent the last twenty minutes painstakingly inserting. 

He just wants a damn Reese’s. 

(It seems he’s not deserving of anything, even candy. He should have known.)

He gives the machine one last half-hearted slap and sighs. There’s no point. He turns away, defeated, and slumps into his seat at the corner table in the hospital cafeteria, gazing dejectedly around the room. 

He stayed in Lizzie’s room all through the night, about nine hours total, eyes wide and taking in the blessed sight of her, denied for so long, and sitting frozen for fear of being noticed.

(Even though she was asleep, he still felt strangely as though he was intruding. Probably because he knew he wouldn’t be welcome if she was awake.)

The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to peek through the blinds on her window when she began to stir, her nose crinkling in an adorable sign of wakefulness. Red had watched, entranced, as a small frown creased her brow as she registered the pain no doubt settled in her body. The corner of Red’s mouth had raised in a small, wonderous smile, amazed at being privy to such a sight, before he realized what was happening. He froze for a second more before gathering himself and standing quietly, moving soundlessly to the door, and slipping out just as her eyes began to open.

(He felt like a creepy, old man.)

He sent Dembe in to be with her while she was awake and wandered through the halls until he found the cafeteria, where he’s sitting now, brooding.

(He’s always been good at that.)

Red sighs, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. 

He doesn’t really know why he’s still here. It’s enough that Dembe is here for Lizzie to make sure she’s alright and doesn’t need anything. He’s only waiting for Dembe to come find him so they can leave the hospital and go back to the hotel suite, where he can be miserable in private. Here, in the cafeteria, there are other people milling about, prodding at the tasteless hospital food and giving heavy sighs, their loved ones somewhere in the building, being cared for. 

Red gazes at them all balefully. At least the people they’re here for actually want their company.

(At least they’re loved.)

As Red watches, he sees a young man enter the cafeteria and look around, searching for someone. He is tall and dark-haired, looking worried and somber, but still handsome, Red supposes. He wonders idly why he’s here.

After a moment, Red sees the man’s face light up in recognition and he moves forward, maneuvering around the tables towards the back of the cafeteria. His mouth opens and he calls out to someone and, though Red is too far away to hear what he says, the young woman at the table next to him suddenly turns her head and stands, rushing towards the man. She has a pretty face with long, wavy red hair that billows behind her as she moves.

(She looks nothing like Lizzie.)

Red watches as the two meet and embrace, the woman pushing her face into the man’s neck, the man’s running up and down her back in a soothing manner. 

The woman has a loved one here then.

Red can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the couple, feeling a certain sense of self-destruction as he watches. He looks on as the women pulls back from the man to put her hands on either side of his face. They kiss.

Red closes his eyes and looks away.

He doesn’t need the fact that he’ll be alone forever rubbed in his face like this. Besides, it hurts enough that he can easily imagine Lizzie in the arms of a man like that. He cringes at the thought. He will never be that man. He is too old, too damaged, not fit to touch Lizzie or anyone like her. He is destined to be alone. 

(He always knew it.)

Red rubs his hands over his face. That’s it, he can’t take any more, he doesn’t want to be here. There’s no reason to. He came to see Lizzie and make sure she’ll be all right, and he did and she will, after a little rest. He’ll take the car and go back to the hotel. Dembe can call him when he’s ready to leave. He can’t stay here watching a blatant display of love and affection he hasn’t felt in years when he can easily go and suffer in silence. He doesn’t blame the young couple, of course, it’s no one’s fault but his own.

(But it still hurts.)

He gives a final heavy sigh and stands. He has loitered long enough. 

It’s time to go.

Red walks out of the cafeteria, leaving the couple alone at their table, heads huddled together intimately, and heads for the main exit of the hospital. He moves slowly throughout the corridors, feeling as though one hundred pounds are pressing on his shoulders, weighing him down. 

(He’s always sympathized with Atlas.)

He drags his feet even more when the automatic sliding glass doors of the entrance come into view, knowing that the minute he walks through them, he’ll be leaving Lizzie for the last time. And she’d probably be glad to know it.

(His heart calls to him from her room but he ignores it, knowing he has no right to it anymore. It’s no longer his. Besides, Lizzie should have two. She’s worth it.)

The sliding doors open for him and he’s about to step outside, out where the earth has the audacity to keep spinning despite the fact that _he’s leaving her_ , when he suddenly hears his name being called. 

“Raymond!”

(He was almost gone. Almost.)

He frowns and turns slowly, exhausted, to see Dembe jogging towards him across the lobby of the hospital.

“Raymond, wait!”

Dembe skids to a halt in front of him, looking decidedly happier than he was a few hours ago. 

Hm. 

“Dembe, I’m going back to the suite. Stay as long as you like, just call me when you want to leave and I’ll –”

“Raymond, no, you cannot leave.”

“What are you talking about, of course I can –”

“No.”

Red stops talking and stares at Dembe, who is rarely so blunt.

“Elizabeth would like to speak to you.” 

Red stops breathing for a second, the air stuttering in his chest.

“What – you – she –”

He can’t seem to string two words together in his shock. Dembe just smiles kindly at him.

“Come, my brother, she wants to see you.”

And Dembe takes his arm and gently pulls him towards the stairs. Red goes along with him in a daze, scarcely believing that he’s not asleep and having a lovely but ultimately soul-crushing dream. 

(Because what else could this be?)

But then they enter Lizzie’s hallway, Dembe tugging him firmly towards her door, and Red remembers their awful fight, the shouting, the tears, the _look on her face_ , and he freezes like a deer, pulling Dembe to a stop.

“But, Dembe, what if –”

(He’s so afraid. He can’t be broken again. He only had one heart. He has nothing left to give her.)

“It will be all right, Raymond. She just wants to talk. If nothing else, just listen to her. Please.”

(And since when is Dembe such a proponent of Lizzie’s? If Red didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Dembe harbored a little resentment toward her for all the emotional trauma she’s unintentionally put Red through over the years. Nothing overt, since Dembe never is, but still there nevertheless. How odd.)

Red tears his gaze away from Dembe and turns to look at Lizzie’s door, still hesitant and unsure, and Dembe sighs.

“Raymond, please, trust me. I would not steer you wrong. Either of you.”

Red’s eyes flit back to Dembe’s face to look at his features, relaxed and content, his familiar face doing much to calm him. 

He’s right, of course.

(Red trusts Dembe with his life. Surely his heart is safe in his hands as well.)

Red nods and pats Dembe on the shoulder, moving forward by himself to put his hand on the handle of Lizzie’s door. 

(This is it.)

And, feeling strangely as though this is a moment he may or may not come back from alive, he turns the handle.

It looks much like the first time he walked into the room last night to see her asleep, resting, recuperating from her accident. However, this time, she’s awake and alert, sitting up in bed, staring fixedly at him as he enters the room. Her blue eyes seem to pierce right through him. He lowers his gaze automatically, feeling strangely shy in her presence, in a way he never has before. 

(It makes sense though, he thinks distractedly, feeling her eyes on him, unwavering. She knows everything now. What he feels. All of him. So, of course, he’s shy.)

But he makes himself raise his eyes to meet her gaze as he gently shuts her door behind him. He can’t hide from her. Not now. Then he stands there looking at her, feeling a little stupid. Dembe said she wanted to talk so why is she just staring? He doesn’t understand the look in her eyes. Why won’t she – 

“Hi, Red.”

Oh. Oh, she said his name. Well, his nickname, but it doesn’t matter because he never thought he’d hear her speak again, let alone hear let his name pass her beautiful lips so pleasantly and – 

“Well, don’t just stand there, silly. Come and sit next to me.”

Yes, that sounds like the Lizzie he knows. His mouth twitches up in a grin. 

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s wondering how she can be talking to him like this, after all that happened between them the last time they met. Granted, that was over a month ago now but he knows how that night is still painfully etched in his memory, so surely it must be in hers too? But he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She’s talking to him. That in itself is incredible, whatever her motives. So, he’ll listen.)

But she’s still staring.

Then Lizzie raises her eyebrows in her signature sardonic amusement, as if to ask why the hell he’s still standing there. He smiles to himself. Good question, that.

He moves forward slowly, feeling as though he’s trying not to startle a wild animal – though he’s not completely sure that animal is Lizzie – and settles back in the chair by her bedside. 

(He wishes he never left.)

He looks at her cherished face and waits, no expectation, just thankfulness. Dembe said she wanted to talk to him and all he had to do was listen. So, that’s what he’ll do. 

For a long minute, she just stares back at him, her eyes roving slowly over his face, her expression still inscrutable. 

“Dembe said you stayed with me last night,” she says finally, quietly. 

Red simply nods at her. The ‘of course’ goes unspoken between them. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her blue eyes looking strangely wet. “You didn’t have to. It was just a little accident, I’m barely hurt.”

Red’s eyes flit to her arm, still in a sling, and then to her leg, still suspiciously large under the blankets, before moving back to her face.

“My arm is just a sprain,” she says, wiggling it as much as she can to demonstrate. “And there’s just a cut on my leg. I mean, it was pretty deep so needed a lot of stitches, but that’s the only reason it’s wrapped up. The car that t-boned me wasn’t going too fast.”

Red’s gaze darkens at the thought of the car and, more importantly, the driver that did this to Lizzie. It wouldn’t be too hard to find them. Just pull traffic camera footage of the crash, Dembe could hack their system easily enough, get the license plate number, and – 

“Red.”

Red snaps back to the present to see Lizzie looking at him knowingly, her lips pursed in disapproval. 

“Don’t you even,” she says darkly. He widens his eyes, trying to look as though he wasn’t just contemplating murder in her name but, by the looks of her, she doesn’t buy it for a minute. She rolls her eyes at him. “It was an accident. They weren’t even on their phone or anything. Now I can see you thinking about it and I won’t let it happen. Do you understand me?”

Red lowers his gaze, feeling slightly guilty at being called out, and sighs in acquiescence. 

“Good,” she murmurs, happy again. Red looks back up at her, studying her lovely smile, feeling more confused more than ever. 

(He’s certainly glad she’s not crying or yelling or running away but he’s not really sure why she’s not. Nothing has changed, at least not with his feelings, since they last talked. So why is she acting differently?)

“Red,” she starts, a little more serious now. Perhaps she’s going to tell him. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Yes, here it is. He just nods again, afraid but morbidly curious, as always.

(He supposes he’s like a cat in that way. Nine lives and all.)

“I asked Dembe to track you down. I was hoping he would manage to catch you before you left. I’m glad he did.”

He can do nothing but blink at her in surprise. Glad? What is she talking about?

She sees the confusion creasing his brow and sighs. She looks down to pick at some lint on her hospital blanket before taking a deep breath and looking up at him again. 

“Red, do you know where I was going last night, when I got in…my little accident?”

Red frowns. Of course, he doesn’t know. Her destination hadn’t even crossed his mind when Dembe told him she was hurt. He simply wanted to know if she was all right. Besides, he had made it his business to know nothing of Lizzie’s whereabouts after their fight. Why was she asking? What could – 

“I was coming to see you.”

Oh.

Red’s mouth falls open a little, completely shocked. Him? She was coming to see _him_?

“Dembe called me,” she says softly. Red frowns a little at that. He told Dembe not to – 

Oh. 

That’s why Dembe had been so beside himself when she was injured, that’s why he knew right away. They were in contact because he was waiting for her to arrive. That’s why he was so upset, that’s why he was so desperate to get to the hospital. If Lizzie had been seriously hurt, it would have been his fault. That’s why Dembe stayed with her for so long today, that’s why Dembe – 

Oh, Dembe.

“Don’t be mad at Dembe, Red, I’m certainly not. He was worried about you. He told me…how you were dealing with things. He asked me if maybe I could find it in myself to come and talk to you.”

Red opens his mouth, this time on purpose, about to tell her that if Dembe forced her or guilted her into anything at all, he – 

“It’s okay, Red,” she stops him before he can even get a word out. “Honestly, I was…thinking about coming to see you anyway. I…Well, you gave me plenty of time to think about things, which I’m very grateful for. A month was enough time for me to sort through…everything.”

(Had she been counting the days too?)

“And the more I thought about it, the worse I felt about how I left things with you. You told me something…and I know it was very hard for you. And I’m ashamed of how I reacted.”

Red starts to shake his head immediately. No, he wants to say, it was he who was out of line, throwing something like that at her the way he did. After all, Tom had just died and she had just found out things, things he had kept from her and –

“Look, I have a whole speech planned, so could you just let me get this out, please?”

Red looks at her for a moment, sitting there, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, stitches on her cheek, gazing at him hopefully. 

(He couldn’t possibly love her more.)

He nods. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Well, I was coming to see you…to apologize. I behaved badly because I was overwhelmed by everything you told me and the…last thing you said was just the cherry on top. I hope maybe you can understand that.”

She looks down for a moment, letting her words rest in the air around them. Red just sits there trying to absorb them. She’s sorry. Lizzie is sorry. It still hurts, of course, it was a huge blow, but her apology goes a long way to making it better. 

(He feels better.)

She still has his heart, of course, and he doesn’t want it back. He’d rather muddle along without it. And when she invariably asks him to go in a few minutes, apology delivered, he will go quietly, thankfully, grateful that he got closure. It’s more than he ever could have asked for and he – 

“And there’s one more thing.”

More? There can’t possibly be anything more that she can say that could make him feel more at ease. She can send him away, it’s okay, he – 

“I thought more about what you said, the…last thing, that is, and I wanted to tell you that…Well, I’m not sure how to say this, actually.”

She bites her lip and Red frowns.

“I, uh…I don’t know if I can give you what you want, Red. I’ve thought and thought about what you said, once I was able to, and how you feel about me does make sense. If I wasn’t such an idiot, I probably would have seen it before.”

(What is happening?)

“But, now that you’ve told me, I have thought about it, I really have. A lot. And…I think I need some more time. Tom was…both the best and worst part of my life. I loved him. But he wasn’t real. And all of that came to light in a relatively short period of time and…now he’s dead. And I’m not broken up about it anymore, I’ve made my peace with things, but I won’t be ready for a relationship for a while. Not with anyone.”

(What is she saying?)

“But…when I’m ready, who knows? It could happen. What I mean is…well, I know that it’s really not fair of me to ask you to wait around but…if I could just have some more time. Not long, really, another few weeks, maybe, and, well…I’d like to get to know you better.”

(What?)

“Because I’ve realized over the past few weeks that I really don’t know that much about you. I mean, I know what color eyes you have and what kind of suits you wear and what crazy foods you eat. But I don’t know where you grew up or how you like your tea or what side of the bed you like to sleep on. And the more I think about it…the more I think I’d like to. And yet, at the same time, I realized that the only thing I do know about you is that you care about me. You…you love me. And, really, at the end of the day, what else do I need to know?”

Oh.

She gives a quick little shrug of her shoulders, a little quirk of her mouth, like it’s _fucking obvious_ , and something clenches in his chest.

Oh, _Lizzie_.

“Anyway,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes in a self-deprecating way and giving an adorable little huff. “What I’m trying to ask is…will you wait for me? And, in a few week’s time, when I’m ready…will you go out with me?”

(He can’t breathe.)

She looks up when she says the last six words and her sudden, direct gaze pins him to his seat. He is frozen in shock. Not cold shock, like before, not that awful freezing thing. More like a warm, flowing, surprising thing. Surprising but welcome. Completely, definitely, perfectly welcome. 

(He can’t believe it.)

“Red?” Lizzie asks, chuckling nervously. “Um, you in there? You, uh, haven’t said anything since you walked in. Are you…okay?”

Oh, yes, he should talk. He should put her at ease. He shouldn’t leave her waiting. That’s not fair. He should speak.

(He should tell her that he’ll wait forever.)

Red clears his throat, feeling as though he’s getting rid of all the sadness and tears and alcohol that have gathered there over the past month. It feels wonderful. But Lizzie is still looking at him expectantly so he blinks a few times, works his jaw, tries to speak past the all the love he has for her. 

(It’s not easy.)

“Y-Yes,” he manages after an unintentionally suspenseful moment. Lizzie lets out a breathy gasp.

“Oh,” she half sighs, half laughs. It’s a wonderful sound. “Oh, okay, good,” she smiles blindingly. “Wait, yes, what? Just to clarify, because I don’t want –”

“Yes, to everything,” he finally interrupts her in a rush. “Yes, I’ll wait, yes, I’ll go out with you, yes, yes, yes.”

And they’re laughing together, giggling desperately, and, oh, all the pain is gone, everything’s okay.

(Not everything, of course. She has hurt him and he has scared her and those wounds will take time to heal. But now they _have_ time. That’s all that matters.)

And Lizzie tentatively offers her hand to him, palm up on her bedspread, a gentle question.

(He appreciates the choice she is giving him. More than she can know. He is still fragile.)

But he delights in reaching out and watching his fingers close gently around hers. He’s allowed to touch her. She wants him to.

(She _wants_ him.)

Yes, everything will be okay. Lizzie can take as much time as she wants and he will wait here for her and he can court her and date her and she will _give him a chance_ –

Yes, everything will be just fine.

Because his heart is here to stay.


End file.
